Nightingale
by fearest
Summary: A dance, a question, a kiss. The Servants Ball, 1920, as according to Mary.


The Servants Ball.

Mary sat on one of the high-backed chairs along the sides of the room, smiling to herself as she watched the Dowager Countess chastise Thomas for moving too fast. Across the room, Lord Grantham danced with Mrs. Hughes, engaging in a quiet but jovial conversation, and Lady Grantham danced with Carson.

She had always been a little annoyed by the ball as a child. She hadn't understood why she, as the fourteen-year-old daughter of an earl, had to dance with the footmen. But this year was different. William was no longer around to dance, and Thomas was her father's valet now - she had no partners, and found herself reminiscing to the days before the war.

There were only three reasons that kept her sitting in her chair that evening, instead of slipping off to her room to sleep. One was that Anna was dancing with one of the boys who worked in the kitchen, and Mary couldn't bear to disturb her when she was almost smiling for the first time in a long time.

Another was that she had an appearance to uphold as the eldest daughter to the Earl of Grantham, and that appearance required that she should stay until a good portion of the party had either retired or stood aside. Besides, the happy atmosphere was cause enough not to whine; Bates wasn't going to hang, Isis had been found, and she was no longer engaged to Richard Carlisle.

The third and final reason was one she wasn't particularly comfortable with admitting, though she wouldn't have changed it for the world.

The air was filled with the smell of sweet wine and the sounds of laughter. The quartet in the corner fiddled out a jaunty tune that kept the younger servants on their toes. The Dowager Countess decided it was all too raucous for her, so she released Thomas and headed back to her seat near Mary. Edith smilingly took her grandmother's place in Thomas' arms and was whisked away as the old woman sat down beside the eldest daughter.

"Will you not dance, Mary?" the Dowager asked, out of breath. "There are plenty of servants for it."

"No, Grandmama, I don't think I'll be doing so tonight." Mary straightened her black silk gloves and kept her eyes on the dancers.

The old woman shot her granddaughter a knowing look, then followed her eyes across the dance floor. Unlike Mary, who was at quite the wrong angle to see him, the Dowager could make out the young man, standing against the opposite wall and gazing at their table intently, blue eyes fixed to the eldest daughter of Lord Grantham. He didn't stay there for long - soon, he was pulled away by Mrs. Patmore for a song.

She pursed her lips and turned back to Mary. "Is there any particular reason why not?"

"No," Mary replied airily. "There are men enough to dance; I do not feel compelled to join them."

The Dowager raised an eyebrow at her and readjusted her cane so she could lean a little closer to her granddaughter. "Cousin Matthew is dancing."

There was a flicker of indecision across Mary's face, so brief that most would miss it. She had a feeling that the Dowager didn't, though - she rarely did. To fill the space, Mary reached out and took a sip of the desert wine that had been brought up for the occasion. "Is he really?"

"Yes, with Mrs. Patmore, just over there," she answered, gesturing with a lace-covered hand toward the center of the floor, where Matthew was now smiling as Mrs. Patmore chatted easily along about how the turnips were going to come along that year. Mary only knew because Anna had been discussing Mrs. Patmore's sudden interest in the vegetable after finding a recipe she wanted to try with it.

If only Mary's life were so simple. Learn some recipes and taste dishes and make soufflés. But she could have none of that - while she'd never work a true day in her life, she would never be able to be as free as Mrs. Patmore, who had now stopped her dialogue and had focused back on what steps to take in the dance.

The evening had already been the left side of a disaster for some. Aunt Rosamund had found her beau in bed with her lady's maid, and as much as she said she was only sad that the Dowager had been proved right, Mary had seen it. She'd seen her aunt's heart shrink a little, her eyes dim, her lips tighten.

She was alone again.

Mary roused herself to take another sip of the wine. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. After all, Aunt Rosamund had already been married - yes, for money, but married nonetheless. She had shared her life with someone.

That was why Mary was going to America, as much as she despised the thought of it. To find someone she could bear for the rest of her life. While it was likely she'd have to spend time in the parlors of every eligible man in New York before the press blew over about her and the late Mr. Pamuk, certainly there was someone who was less harsh than Carlisle and more available than . . .

And even then, who was to say she'd ever forget who she truly wanted to be with?

Almost unconsciously, her eyes lifted, searching the dancers for a sight of his blond head, but either he was hidden by the others or he was no longer dancing.

"Come, Mary, I will not have you sit here all evening," the Dowager said abruptly, intruding upon Mary's thoughts with the determination of a runaway train. "Stand up. Walk about. Find a partner."

"Grandmama - "

The Dowager knocked her cane gently against Mary's leg, hidden by the long, wine-colored dress Anna had helped Mary choose for the evening. "I insist."

Mary held her grandmother's gaze for a long moment, then let out an obvious sigh. She stood. "One dance, Grandmama."

The Dowager smiled to herself and shooed Mary away. She had plans, no doubt. Perhaps she hoped Mary would find a lively spark among the rest of the dancers and wouldn't be so gloomy about the whole America affair.

All the eligible men were partnered, as far as Mary could see. Standing a few feet off from where she'd been sitting, the room had shifted, and she could see more than just her sliver of the company. Edith was being waltzed around by a grinning Thomas, and Carson was dancing with Lady Crawley, who seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. Lady Grantham had retired, most likely to the library, and her father presided over the whole celebration from his outpost by the stairs.

From the corner of her eye, Mary saw Aunt Rosamund return, suddenly appearing from behind one of the pillars. At the distance, and maybe because of the darker shadows in her corner of the room, Aunt Rosamund looked quite composed. But Mary could see something in her stature that made her almost certain she'd been crying, and had only just recovered.

The music transitioned into a slower piece, and a dark form appeared at her elbow. She didn't need to look to know exactly who it was, because the very proximity made her skin tingle.

"What about it?" Cousin Matthew asked, looking at the dance floor.

Mary turned her head to look at him, wishing she could ignore the bounds her heart made at the sight of him. She was not to be his, not after Lavinia, not after Pamuk, not after Carlisle. She forced aside the grim thoughts to leave only the happiness at his company behind. "Why not?"

He guided her out onto the dance floor and they slid between the already-moving couples to find some space to begin. Matthew put his hand on her waist and took her gloved hand in his. Mary placed her hand on his shoulder, though she desperately wanted to use it to pull him closer - but she could never let that happen, not as a lady.

They began their circuit around the room, and Mary kept her eyes fixed on one of the dark buttons of Matthew's evening coat. There was a silence between them for a few turns. Then, Matthew drew breath to speak. "How are your plans for America going?"

A soft smile was pressed onto Mary's lips as she contemplated her answer. She couldn't let Matthew see her disappointment. "I'll book my crossing as soon as I hear back from Grandmama."

Matthew's face remained a mask of pleasant civility. She wished she could ask him what he was really thinking, even though that would have been dreadfully inappropriate. "Will you be gone long?"

"I don't know," Mary answered calmly, resigning herself to the moment. "I'll have to see."

The silence stretched on again, clutching at the words Mary wanted to say and sticking them to the back of her throat. The evening was perfect, the music was perfect, everything was perfect, and yet she could say nothing of what really mattered.

"Do you know, this is actually my first Servants Ball?" Matthew said, almost in a rush. Perhaps he'd felt that the quiet was too much. Maybe he didn't like dancing without a tête-à-tête. Some men preferred not to talk, but Mary had never liked the quality. Talking made the dance less of an exercise and more of a travelling conversation.

"Oh. Really?"

He nodded, taking his eyes off of her to look around. Mary used the moment to take in his appearance, for it may very well have been the last chance she'd get to see him like this before she left. His blue eyes were astonishingly bright under the crystal chandeliers, and his cheeks had spots of color on them from the dance. She wanted to reach up and fix the strands of straight blond hair that his pomade had released.

Then his eyes slid back to her, and she dropped her gaze to his shoulder again. He nodded. "Yes. The first year I was here for it, I wasn't welcome, and for the second I'd caught cold and my mother wouldn't let me come."

"Then the war started," Mary finished, meeting his clear gaze. As a member of the socialite class, she knew precisely when to look up and when to look away, but she let her eyes stay on him for a second more than was strictly necessary before ducking her head and smiling. "And how are you liking it?"

"It's quite pleasant, actually. Miss O'Brien is a good partner, which I cannot help but find mildly surprising. Mrs. Patmore absolutely adores turnips, and after my conversation with her, I might just love them too. And Daisy only knows one dance, but she dances it well."

His lips curved up into a smile as he spoke, and Mary felt her mouth do the same in spite of herself. That was the problem with spending time with Matthew. With every passing second, she was reminded of why she was still hopelessly in love with him.

"And you? What have you learned tonight, Mary?" he asked, lowering his voice a little, though no one would be listening in at a time like that besides. "Do the manservants lead very well, or make good conversation?"

"I wouldn't know," Mary said. For the first time since they'd started dancing, she took in her surroundings. Servants and rank danced in circles about them, filling the air with the delightful hum of conversation and hearts beating faster than normal. "I suppose I would usually have a dance with Carson, but your mother got to him first, and there are no more footmen."

"Well that's a shame," Matthew said. She could feel his eyes on her face, and heat began to rise in her cheeks. The closeness between them was too much - the modest foot of space they had started out with had dwindled to mere inches, and she could practically feel the thrum of his heartbeat against her chest. He smiled wryly. "I suppose we'll just have to keep dancing, then."

At that moment, the song ended, and the musicians paused as many of the couples broke apart and found new dance partners. Mary's face felt hot. Abruptly, she released Matthew and stepped back out of the circle of his arms. "No, thank you. I think I need some fresh air. Maybe we can dance again later."

She didn't wait for his response, though she refrained from hurrying away. She knew in her heart that she couldn't dance again later, because if she did, she knew she'd slip up. She'd say something too forward, or worse, _do_ something.

She navigated her way expertly through the dancers, out across the large front foyer, and through the front doors. The laughter and fog of alcohol helped her slip away virtually unnoticed.

The large dark expanse of the estate stretched out in front of her. Even this sight was beginning to turn painful for her - it would belong to Matthew, and whoever he married. Whoever would replace Lavinia.

Whoever would replace her.

She clutched her arms about her, struck by the sudden loneliness, rather than the cold air that filled her nose and mouth. The snowy world about her was her cage, and she, the great nightingale of the Downton Abbey, was trapped in it, alone.

From behind her, there was the sound of approaching footsteps leaving the old stone of the steps for the gravel of the driveway. Mary locked her gaze on a tree in the far distance to ignore the fact that she wasn't the least bit sorry that Matthew had decided to come after her.

"That was fun." He came up beside her, looking across the grounds with her. For a fraction of a second, Mary imagined that this was what it would have felt like, should she have said yes to him all those years ago. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man she loved, presiding over their snow-swept world as the inheritors of Downton.

"There'll be a few thick heads in the morning," Matthew went on, and Mary blinked out of her reverie, glancing over at him. The light from the house spilled out across the gravel and lit the edge of his profile as he tilted his head a little to look her way.

"No doubt they think it's worth it," Mary replied. Perhaps she should open the cage for him, as she once had. She had never done it for anyone else. But what good could it do?

Matthew's brow creased, and he clasped his hands behind his back. The jovial expression on his face slipped a little as he looked at Mary head-on. "Are you really going to America?"

Mary looked down, unable to hold his intent gaze. It was as though he could look right through her and see precisely what it was that was on her mind. Or, inversely, when she looked at him and thought about how much she would love him if she ever had another chance, he appeared to be as thick as a board, and just about as vigilant.

He took a half-step closer so that his quieter voice could still be heard over the light winter breeze. "Would Carlisle make your life a nightmare if you stayed?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Mary looked up at him, wishing she could be closer to him, wishing she could feel his warmth. The winter chill was starting to seep through her skin, and she felt goosepimples rising on her flesh. "Even if I did stay, the story's still out there and always will be."

There was a lull in the conversation, then she heard Matthew's breath catch. She frowned slightly and glanced up at him to see an expression of hesitation on his normally open face. "Would you stay . . . if I asked you to?"

Mary's heart stuttered, and she felt the pang of an indescribable emotion resonate in her chest. "Oh, Matthew, you don't mean that. You know yourself, we carry more baggage than the porters at King's Cross. And what about Mr. Pamuk? Wouldn't he resurrect himself every time we argued?"

He shook his head gently. "No."

Mary's throat felt dry, and her throat convulsed as she tried to swallow. She parted her lips and said, "You mean you've forgiven me?"

Again, he shook his head. His gaze was more persistent than ever. "No, I haven't forgiven you."

Mary's heart stopped altogether, and she glanced down and away. She had to remain composed. Her hands clenched and she clasped them together to make it look less harsh. All because of a mistake she made seven years ago, with a man she barely knew. "Well then."

She was about to turn away when he spoke again. "I haven't forgiven you because . . . I don't believe you need my forgiveness. You've lived your life and I've lived mine. Now it's time we lived them together."

Suddenly, Mary could breathe again. She looked up, her eyes capturing every inch of Matthew's face. Snowflakes caught on his lashes and in his hair, and his cheeks were pale from cold, but he was smiling. She turned her body to face him, making the space between them smaller, more intimate. "We've been on the edge of this so many times. Please don't take me there again unless you're sure."

The smile widened. "I am sure."

Mary wanted to hug him, kiss him, and above all, say yes, but she couldn't. The cage door remained firmly closed around the nightingale and she couldn't. Not yet. "And your vows to the memory of Lavinia?"

Matthew looked away, taking in the cold night that blanketed them and the estate. It was as though the words he was saying had been sitting in the bottom of his stomach for a long time, and they were just bubbling up to the surface now. "I was wrong. . . . I don't think she wants us to be sad. She was someone who'd never caused a moment's sorrow in her life."

The nightingale was closer to opening the cage now. Mary's heart lifted, hardly daring to believe that it was really happening, _finally happening_. For four years of war, she had waited. "I agree."

Matthew looked back down at her, his face pale above hers in the half-light. "Then will you?"

"You must say it properly," Mary said, an elated laugh in her voice. She didn't care if he heard it now. "I won't answer unless you kneel down and everything."

For the briefest of moments, Mary was worried he'd scoff it off. Carlisle would have. He would have said something about not being ridiculous, about how he was offering it like the deal that it was and that she should take it just as it was, but she saw the flash of his grin, and he knelt. His pants would probably end up splotchy from the snow and dirt, but he didn't seem to care.

He took her gloved hands in his and gave them a squeeze. Her fingers tightened around his. She would never let him go. "Lady Mary Crawley, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Mary grinned, wider than she could remember doing ever since she met him. "Yes."

Matthew got to his feet, not letting go of her hands. He used them to draw her close, and she lifted them to rest against his chest. His arms circled her, holding her against him. For a second, they hung there, lips close enough to touch, eyes drinking each other in.

Then he kissed her, long and slow and deep. He kissed her like it was his promise, the promise he would whisper in her ear when they lay in their wedding bed, and the promise he had instilled in her from the day he'd first proposed. The promise that he loved her with all of his heart.

Against his lips, Mary sighed. The nightingale broke free from its cage.

And it soared.


End file.
